Games of Obsession
by Hamilcar
Summary: Obsession is not just a game for young men. Erik and Angier obsessively seek revenge upon their rivals. Yet while they draw in their opponents, others are caught in between, and their deceitful game grows deadly.
1. Chapter 1

This fic is based off of the 2006 movie version of The Prestige and a combination of versions of Phantom, with some ideas from Kay, Leroux and ALW. The timeline shifts back and forth and between stories; although it was fairly difficult to gauge precisely when events occured in the 'Pretige-verse,' most dates after 1887 were approximated by what Jess' age seemed to be.

And for those who have not seen/read both works - there will be spoilers.

OOO

**1887**

Mistakes had been made, somewhere along the line. What made them worse was the sense that it was clear at the time that a mistake was being made, but it happened anyway. Bad decisions willfully chosen, bad ideas followed through to their completion and when there was a price to be paid, regret took hold.

Julia did not have much time to think about her mistake, the one little head nod that signaled to Borden that she could handle his knot. It was over for her in less than five minutes, less than three even; her lungs felt as though they would explode and yet there was no air to be drawn. The image of Cutter - distorted through the water - came in her last moments as he desperately tried to shatter the tank's glass. Yet she blacked out before it shattered and did not even get to feel her husband's hands upon her face as he tried to wake her.

The drowning had been agony; yet for all that, it was over quickly. Her husband's trial would be much longer and mistakes of his own were waiting to be made.

OOO

**1882 **

Years earlier, another error had been made.

Although he could not bring himself to admit it openly, there was times when Erik caught himself musing that perhaps his last encounter with Christine had been a mistake. It preserved him from dying a virgin, he supposed; but it wasn't real or lasting and in some way it taunted him with thoughts of what he couldn't have. Regret at losing her was not the only result, however.

He watched her. It was an obsession of his, watching Christine from afar, and though he could not approach her as he had done once before, he could still make sure that she was doing well; or at least that was his rationalization. Though he had given her up so that she would be happy, he still envied Raoul for winning in the end and gaining what he could not. It had only been a dim jealousy, however, until he realized not long after their final meeting that Christine was pregnant.

Even after the girl was born there was no way of knowing for sure if it was his. Some days he thought he caught himself in the shape of her face or the glint of her eyes; other times she was void of all such resemblance and looked to be solidly a de Chagny. He wondered if that would change as she grew; yet whether it did or not, it kindled old feelings regardless. When he saw her with them, when they were a family and she was being held, he gritted his teeth and felt injured and owed.

She could have been his child. She _should _have been; he would have trained her properly from the very start. He would have shaped her into the most brilliant instrument the world had ever know. After all, being as she was Christine's child, surely she would inherit her mother's better qualities. It was unthinkable that she should not. As as for the paternity - Raoul's inadequacies could be overcome and if he were the father, then so much the better. Her voice was sure to be the most splendid sound ever, he assured himself. Even her cries were musical and it would only develop as she aged.

He knew he had promised to leave them alone. A child, however, had not been part of the discussion. And if it was his, then was it not his right? Had he not lost enough, was he to lose his only child too?

And so he had determined that the girl would be his, one way or another.

OOO

**1890**

It had been a mistake, not using a plant. He'd been warned, too, that it was a mistake. Borden winced as his wife poured alcohol over the bloody stumps of his fingers and then bound them up again. In the background he could hear Jess fussing and his mind was wracked with pain and sound.

However, as much as he disliked the experience, at least his was over; in his workroom there was a chisel and a bottle of vodka prepared for the pain yet to come.

OOO

**1887 **

Six-year-old Phillipa de Chagny, named for her father's deceased elder brother, was concerned; her parents were arguing again. They spent many nights arguing, though the subject of their disagreement was not known to her. She only ever caught snatches of their conversation and had no idea what it meant.

_He is dead! I am sure of it! I saw the body, the Daroga confirmed it..._

_I don't believe it! He is an expert at trickery! Besides, did you really thing he would keep such a promise? _

_Yes! You weren't coherent, you don't understand - he really meant it Raoul!_

_Well I don't trust it!  
_

_So what then? You're going to move us again just because you jump at shadows?!_

_No - because I am not naive and am concerned for her well-being._

Phillipa clutched her doll and closed her eyes, trying to pretend she couldn't hear. It was no good, however. So she stuck her head under her pillow and hummed to herself so that she could not hear them. Eventually she fell asleep and the maid came in and resettled her head atop the pillow. As she slept a figure in the tree outside stirred.

"I would not treat her as such," Erik muttered, ignoring the fact that he had been the source of the argument so distressing to her. He took one last glance then dashed off into the night.

OOO

**1897**

"I need to know!" Angier vented again at Cutter. The old engineer sighed; he had already sent Olivia away and yet was not content to simply wait for a reply.

"I still think it unwise to continue the trick with the double," Cutter spoke up. "And this attempt to figure out how he does it is a fool's errand. But as you wish."

He heard a knock at the door and went away for a moment, leaving Angier to his fretting. There was a young lady standing there, dressed cleanly and smiling. She was young - still a teenager, most likely - but pretty enough for their purposes.

"I heard you were in need of an assistant?" There was a French accent to be discerned in her speech, but it was only slight. Cutter nodded and waved her in.

"What's your name, child?"

"Charlotte Ogier."

A psuedonym, like as not, but then again who didn't use one in this business?

"Angier!" He called. "There's a girl here for the job!"

Frustrated, the magician sighed. He stormed over to her and looked her over. He then lead her to the cabinets they used and had her demonstrate her ability to perform a few simply but necessary tasks.

"You'll do, I suppose. You agree to the pay advertised?"

She nodded.

"Fantastic. You'll start next show. But you'll need an outfit."

"Oh, I have one sir," she informed him, pointing to the trunk she had with her. A tall, lanky man who'd been waiting with it by the door hefted it in, dropped in down and gave her a nod. She turned and dropped a few coins in his hand and with a muttered thanks he was gone.

"You have your own costume?" He stated flatly.

A blush spread over her cheeks.

"I have... relatives in theater. I learned to sew."

"I see." He paused. "Well, get it on and we'll see how it looks."

She dragged the trunk behind the screen used for dressing and began to change.

"So will you be doing the trick tonight, sir?" Cutter sighed.

"Of course! We can't stop, not when he's right across the street. I just wish there were a way I could be the one..."

"Well there's not. You have to speak before the trick and the double sounds nothing like you. Besides - there's no time to switch you before the trick. And even if there was, and even if he could, it does not solve our problem of his demands!"

'Charlotte' stepped out from behind the screen in a red and black costume, a flower in her hair.

"I need some help with my bodice. I can't quite tie it in the back."

Angier walked over and began to tug at the strings from behind.

"It could be done, you know," she told him softly. "With a mechanized device."

His hands stopped as he was looping a knot. "What could be done?"

"Your transporting trick could be done with only one man."

He regarded her with a critical eye and finished the knot. "Go on. I'm listening."

Outside, the man who'd helped her with the trunk went and purchased a ticket with the money she'd given him to see the show across the street. At first, selecting the magician had been a random act; she needed a job to tide her over and because Danton was French she'd decided to look there first. The random selection, however, seemed to be quite fortuitous. He was a man desperate, obsessed - a man who needed and therefore could be used.

The first thing, however, was to examine the competition.

OOO

Across the city of London, people moved like pieces in a game, each obsessed with his or her own concerns. Obsessed with revenge, obsessed with triumphing, obsessed with proving themselves, obsessed with fame and fortune and love. And even as they presented their pledges, they hid secrets from each other, secrets lying in wait until the completion of the trick.


	2. Chapter 2

OOO

**1889**

The birth of Christopher, named for his mother, was a relief to Raoul which not even the difficulty of the birth - and subsequent pronouncement of the doctor that further children would be a danger - could taint.. Here at last was a child whose parentage he need not fret over. Christopher was a de Chagny, through and through, with Raoul's delicate complexion and wispy blond hair. Christine and the child had just fallen asleep after the delivery and cleanup, however, when Raoul's world was unsettled once more with a crash.

He ran down the hall and found the maids gathering outside the door of his daughter's room. Pushing through them, he found Phillippa sitting in the center of the room with the full length looking glass that was normally next to her closet shattered about her. Her hands were bloody and she was holding two broken pieces of the mirror, looking at them curiously and exhibiting no signs of distress, despite the spatter over her clothes and the carpet.

Two of the maids were frantically trying to bandage her hands, but she neither cooperated or resisted. Despite a vague drive telling him that he ought to be consoling his daughter, Raoul couldn't stop himself from shuddering as he looked down upon the scene. He stood there frozen in place until the girl looked up at him with a placid gaze.

"I was curious to see what reflections could be made with the pieces," she said, as if it explained everything.

After another beat, the silence filled only by the murmurings of the maids, Raoul came to himself. He knelt beside his daughter and gave her a quick embrace.

"You'll be alright," he whispered. "Just let them take care of you." He drew back a bit and smiled at her. "Your mother delivered a boy, Phillippa. Christopher. You have a brother! Aren't you happy?"

Phillippa made no verbal reply, but nodded after a moment, as if she was aware that it was what was expected over her. At a loss, Raoul patted her head then rushed back to his wife's side, trying desperately to rid his mind of what he'd just seen. Paranoia gnawed at the edges of his thoughts. Such things did _not _just happen. Phillippa would not experiment so on her own, without provocation. It puzzled Raoul deeply, as he considered himself as vigilant as it was possible to be. Nevertheless, given the proof of what he had just seen, his designs were apparently to no avail.

Erik _had _to be in contact with her. He had to be, there was no other explanation. But what could he do about it, Raoul wondered. He tried to steer Phillippa aware from pursuits that might lead in such a direction, did not tell her the stories of old that had so engaged Christine's imagination and primed her mind for Erik's faux-supernatural approach. He got her tutors to show her painting and drawing, quietly discouraging musical pursuits and absolutely never taking her to the theater. He made sure Phillippa was outside regularly, that she might love the light too much to ever be persuaded to follow a honey-tongued Orpheus into the bowels of Hades.

Raoul had truly tried; but Phillippa's long fingers caressing the broken shards, turning them, fascinated; the glint she had in her eyes when she peered into darkness; the solitude she almost always preferred to indulge in, all persistently and unpleasantly reminded him that perhaps humans were shaped by something deeper than education could alter.

OOO

**1897**

Charlotte wet the towel in the basin, scrubbed her face and then looked it over carefully in the mirror. There was still residual makeup from the rehearsal, so she reapplied soap and scoured her face a second time. Finally satisfied, she rinsed once more than began to dab her face dry. A whisper of rustling cloth told her that someone was approaching and when she opened her eyes, she found a brown parcel in front of her and the man who'd helped her earlier standing next to her.

"I had change left and I thought you would enjoy it."

She undid the twine then ripped the paper off of the volume, revealing a copy of Matthew Lewis' _The Monk_. Her lips curved into a smile and she looked up at him.

"You do know me," she laughed, setting it aside.

"I should like to flatter myself that I do."

"You were quite right, by the way - though this does not surprise me. The other act is all he talks about. I fear we shall have to do something soon, else I will go quite mad from hearing endless rants about the Transported Man trick."

"Borden ended the performance that I saw with it."

"And?" She started to apply the normal, everyday cosmetics she wore.

"It is simpler than I had feared. He has a twin and uses him, that is all. I admit, I am rather surprised that his engineer did not spot it directly."

"Angier speaks of him as if he were one person."

"I would not expect him to know; nor many others to suspect. But do you think I am the only person who could or has spent most of his life under a mask? Do you think I, of all people, could not recognize a disguise or the countenance of a man used to hiding himself from the world?"

"Quite an ordeal they've undertaken, then."

"Yes, and I have no doubt it will be exploitable in the future. For now, however, we do not tell either of ours. We watch. I admit, though, I am a bit disappointed in the engineer if he did not at least suspect it."

"Perhaps he did at one point but discovered something to contradict it."

"If he has, that will be up to you to discover. I trust you to gauge his intelligence well."

"I'll have a better idea of it once he tells me what he thinks of the diagrams and his ability to execute them."

"Did you give them to Cutter directly?"

"No. I gave them to Angier. He will be easier to impress, particularly if he feels he can gain an edge over Borden - or perhaps I should say Borden_s_ - with it. We run less risk of refusal. Cutter might not be able or he might resist interference with what is technically his duty; if Angier insists, however, he will have no recourse."

"Well done. Shall I leave you to your reading then?"

"You may if you wish. However, if you stay, it would be a good opportunity to see what happens during an actual show instead of merely skulking about an empty theater."

"Perhaps. Regardless, even if I do it would be much better for me to remain unobtrusive. Therefore, I shall bid you adieu."

"Au revoir."

OOO

"You can say what you like, but I don't trust her," Cutter voiced his opinion bluntly.

"Why ever not? She is familiar with what we do, young, pretty, comes with her own costume - I will admit she lacks recommendations but she more than makes up for that with her dexter-"

"She might come from Borden!" Cutter interrupted. "Did you ever think of that? And her being quite that young is a downside as far as I'm concerned."

"These diagrams are fascinating - we just might be able to work this! To finally be rid of that abominable Root - to finally be able to receive my applause!"

"You aren't listening. And that's another thing - those diagrams. Do you really think she drew those up herself? Who made them? And they're designed to this theater. Not just any theater, _this _theater. She, or someone she's been paying, has been here, prepared for coming to meet you. This is deliberate - not a day and already she's drawing you in! This is foolishness!"

Angier regarded Cutter from his chair.

"Can you build it?"

"Sir, I really don't think..."

"Can you!" He demanded.

"Yes," Cutter grumbled with a sigh. "But I don't like this."

"So you let me know when you can start and finish by. I want this completed as quickly as possible."

"Fine then. But I will again say - I don't trust her. Something feels wrong. I feel like I recognize her, that costume, that look she has - I just can't quite place it. And when I do, well sir, I can't say I think anything good will come of it."

"You are acting nonsensical, Cutter. Falling to pieces due to nothing more than a little deja vu. Time will pass and you'll see that she is the same as any of the others, maybe even better if this sketch is her work and any indication of her mind."

"Well I sincerely doubt that sir. I'll follow you, even into trouble, as long as I can. But there are roads even I won't go down; keep that in mind."

With that, Cutter walked away from Angier to go and check on the props to be used for that evening. Angier looked the papers over once more before shoving them into a drawer and going to practice his legerdemain once more. As he walked across the floor to his prop cabinet he caught sight of Charlotte sitting atop her trunk, back against the wall, reading.

"You did quite a good job today," he said as she flipped a page. She looked up with a smile.

"I have the job then?"

"Definitely. I appreciate the diagrams as well. You've no idea how desperately I've been looking for something like that. You are hired, then, at the advertised price."

"Wonderful! I must tell you though - I do come with a partner. Do not be distressed! I do not ask that you pay him or hire him in any sort of fashion. Merely, he is my companion and helps me out with a great many things; I would be loathe to have him entirely separated from me before shows. All I ask is that he has permission, the same as Cutter, to be backstage."

"I think that could be allowed..." He answered hesitantly. Was Cutter right to be reluctant? Could she be a spy? Could the partner be someone working in collusion with her to steal his secrets? It was bad enough, harboring doubts about Olivia; he did not need another possibly faithless employee. He wondered briefly if he ought not revoke his offer that instant; then he recalled the diagrams and wondered what else she - or perhaps the companion as it were - could think up for him.

"Excellent. I will tell him so. And I intend to introduce you two as soon as I may; his name is Erik and I daresay that you two will become close companions." She closed the book and walked up to him, close enough that he could appreciate how young she really was beneath the makeup she wore. "You will not regret this," she told him firmly.

She then turned, placed the book in her trunk, grabbed her coat and left. "I will be back this evening," she promised, "to see the show."

He watched her leave and it wasn't until she was completely out of sight that he realized just how still he had been standing.

OOO

In the darkness beneath the stage, a shadow watched Root practicing his acting - if it could be called that - with contempt. He was decent, to be sure, but with an arrogance not unlike Carlotta's that made his presence offstage nearly insupportable. If he continued to make demands it would become even worse; he was rapidly developing from annoyance to threat. And, of course, he was persistently inebriated.

From somewhere in the darkness there came a sound.

"You are not a stagehand," the figure said without preamble, without even turning around. "Do not protest to me otherwise, it shall irritate me more." Root, who had leapt unsteadily to his feet, was motioned away by a white gloved hand. "Get out of here and get to your place. As for _you _- whichever one of you it is - Professor, I do suggest you leave now. Particularly since you have been so good and so foolish as to bring rope with you, about your person."

"'Ere now! I dunno what yer on about!"

"Too late."

Borden scarcely had time to move before a lank figure was upon him. The fingers felt skeletal but gripped him like a vice and though he tried to struggle free a damp glove was pressed over his face. His muscles went slack and the gag and rope he'd been holding slipped from his hands.

"Charlotte!"

"I replaced the pad he'd taken away. Angier is going to perform it in another couple of minutes.

"I know. Run up to the catwalk and see if the other one is up there. There is another rope with a hook here; he was probably planning to hang and lower him."

"Drop a man's body down from a catwalk in the middle of a performance? Who would ever do such a thing?" She teased.

"Go!"

When Charlotte returned, the applause was audible; Root had gone out as ever and Angier was fuming, not knowing what he narrowly missed. She had with her a board, advertising Borden's show across the street.

"Nobody was there," she whispered. "And he could have planted this beforehand."

"Perhaps. Regardless, it did not work. We cannot have Angier's reputation damaged - he is too valuable to us. Remain vigilant during future performances and I shall as well."

"And what do you intend to do with him?" She inquired, motioning towards the gagged and bound Borden.

"It is not time for me to meet Angier just yet. I need to prepare. Give him to Angier, but see that he does no more than rough him up slightly. He could be even more useful, if followed."

"As you say." She propped the body up against a wall and went to take care of the situation. Erik slid out of the back door and into the adjoining alley, tossing a pair of drug-damp kid gloves in the trash and slipping into the darkness to wait.

OOO


	3. Chapter 3

OOO

**1890**

Phillippa continued to stare straight forward as the carriage she was riding in ground to a halt. From up front came a suspicious gurgle that might have been from the driver. This did nothing to unnerve her, however; instead she waited patiently with her hands folded on her lap. When the door swung open, she turned to face the man responsible.

"My father thinks I am spending the break at school, does he not?" She asked placidly. Though she had never seen the man she was addressing face to face before, her tone was controlled, as though the course of events was entirely natural.

"And your school believes that you have returned home to your family in the interim." Erik smiled. "Somebody has been eavesdropping and opening letters. You are quick to learn, aren't you?"

"Tell me," she said, staring at his mask, her eyes alight with a frantic fire, "is it truly as they say?"

"My but we cut to the chase, don't we?"

She frowned. "Don't patronize me."

"You do know my conditions about its removal?" He lifted her chin up with one lank, bony finger. "I am sure that your mother would have told you that, if nothing else. Wouldn't want you repeating the same mistakes."

"I will never repeat her mistakes," Phillippa replied coldly, jerking her head away. "Remove it now or I shall walk the three miles back to the boarding school."

"Feisty. I like that. Very well, you shall have your wish – pray you do not regret it." He reached behind his head and unfastened the cord that bound the leather mask to his face. It slid away into his hands, revealing the pallid, stretched skin beneath, the gaping hole where the nose should have been, the thin lips and the sunken sockets.

There was the sound of a breath being sharply drawn in. "Marvelous," she murmured. "Not in all my imaginings could I have conceived of something so splendidly _horrid_."

He gave her a wry smile. "The one who conceived of it has an imagination infinitely larger than yours, so I cannot blame you. But you parents, they never described it?"

"My parents tried very hard to pretend that nothing happened, as though there were no other sources of information, as though I could not hear the echoes which reverberated…" A bemused look spread across her features. "And what in my face so entrances you, that you stare without thought, without pause?"

Erik was silent for a moment before he replied. "I am trying to decide whose daughter you are," he told her at length.

She laughed, a light sound. "Well that's a simple question." Her lips curved into a sly grin. "I am the child of Christine Daae."

At this, Erik burst into laughter as well. "And so you are! Now come, child. Sit back and we shall depart. The road is long and the day is waning."

"As you like." She settled back into the plush cushion. "But I doubt either of us has anything to fear from the dark."

OOO

**1897**

"He knows!" Olivia repeated the phrase over and over amidst a spate of choking sobs.

Borden did his best to embrace and comfort the sobbing woman, with Fallon watching uneasily. Borden wondered if he shouldn't motion Fallon over; he would be better at comforting the girl as he was the one whose feelings for her were genuine. Today was not his day, however, so it was left to him to console her.

"What has happened? Who knows?" He whispered, rubbing her back.

"Angier knows I betrayed him…" she moaned eventually. "He knows, he knows… oh it was awful, terrible…"

Borden gripped her shoulders, harder than he'd meant to. "How do you know? What did he do to you?" The magician demanded.

"He… he sent someone, he must have… he had me followed… everywhere, the creature follows me, haunting me…" She wiped her eyes with a crumpled handkerchief. "At night, my room is full of strange noises. Croaks and growls echo off the walls, glowing eyes appear at my windowsill but nobody is there when I look. And always the music, creeping in at night, faces looming in the darkness, claws touching me…"

"Has he…" Borden swallowed. "Has he violated you?"

She shook her head doubtfully. "Not… not per se. But it's always… I don't know how to explain it! His man is everywhere, it's absolutely awful. And he wants… he says that he… it's the book!"

"The book?" He frowned. "What of it?"

"He wants the key to decoding the book," she whispered.

Abruptly, he pushed her away. "No. Not that."

"Please!" She pleaded. "I will never have a moment's peace if you do not!"

"Olivia, what you are describing – it isn't possible. You must be imagining. You must be." He tried to quash his own recollections of hands in the darkness.

"I am not!" She shrieked, almost hysterical. "Please, just give him what he wants so that he will go away!"

"You do not know what you are asking!"

"Is that all I am to you?" She demanded in a sudden fury. "So little that you will not even give him a single word for the sake of sparing my sanity? So insignificant that you dismiss all of my fears, all my pain out of hand?"

"I am sorry. Truly," he said with a glance at Fallon. "But the diary… it is too important."

A long silence passed between them.

"I should never have left Angier," she opined bitterly. "At least then my night would be silent and I would not see such… such nightmares when I sleep. Nothing in the world is worth this agony."

She fled the room, leaving the two men alone.

"She will return," Borden assured Fallon in a whispered. "She will."

Before she could return, however, Fallon left and before long found himself being buried alive. Whatever he might pretend the word was worth, it was not worth that, and so Borden whispered the word to the girl waiting at the graveside.

_Tesla_.

OOO

**1892**

Raoul stared into the grave listening to the whispers all around him, his wife and daughter by his side. The hole in the earth was small, no larger than the space of a few meters. So small, so small…

Just like his son had been.

People came up to them, wave after wave, shaking his hand and offering their condolences. It was terrible, they said, that such an accident should happen, that one so young should be so cruelly taken away. Disapproving voices murmured about the nanny. Wasn't she supposed to have been watching him? Who could be so careless as to let a child drown like that?

And his sister to find him too! Too cruel, they murmured, that a child like that should have to be the one to find her brother dead and floating in the lake. Too cruel, too tragic. One never understood why such things happened to such pleasant people. The old women sighed and shook their heads; hadn't they all had enough tragedy already?

Privately, Raoul looked at his dry-eyed daughter, terrible yet unprovable suspicions lurking, and wondered if the tragedies would never end.

OOO

**1897**

"I don't understand why we are chasing after this… after this absurd MacGuffin that will lead us nowhere." Charlotte glared at the book while she applied her makeup. "We already _know_ how he is performing the trick. We already _know_ about his twin. There can't be anything Nikolai Tesla knows that will change that. The Bordens merely want to coax Angier to go on another absurd chase and take advantage of his absence to promote their own show."

"Be that as it may, ma petite, Angier does not know about their secret and will not believe something so simple. He is a man who must be led to his conclusions, not given them. All the better to let him think himself clever." Erik leaned against the wall, observing her work.

"And that is the only reason you won't tell him outright? Foolishness," she spat. "He will believe what I tell him regardless. If he is persuaded to leave, he will lose money."

"I shouldn't much worry about that. Between his family, my resources and – dare I say – yours, we will be fine. But I have other reasons as well."

"Reasons you care to explain?" She smeared on lipstick with an agitated gesture.

"I should like to meet Tesla. Now that the matter has come up, I see no reason not to pursue it. He may very well possess a soul, a mind like mine and you know as well as I how rare those are in this world. Why not seize the opportunity while we're given the chance? An overshadowed genius whom the world will not pay attention to, whose progress the world fears… yes, I think there is something we can learn from him. Or at the very least a spirit with which we can commiserate.

"By now I should hope you would have some respect for the strength of my instinct, trust that it will not lead us astray. I feel very strongly that we should go to meet this Tesla. See what we can see, learn what we can learn. It might prove invaluable." He walked over and set his hands on her shoulders. "So tell me child – do you trust me to lead you, even across oceans?"

"I'd trust you to lead me into the depths of hell," she replied, standing, turning around and kissing him. "I must go. The performance starts shortly. And in the interim…"

"I will begin to see to the travel arrangements. Now go – dazzle them."

OOO

**1893**

"I don't see why you're so surprised. We neither of us brook disappointment easily." She gave the violin peg a twist. "You know how the laws are written."

"And what of my disappointment?" He glared at her thunderously. "What are you doing to rectify that?"

"I don't know!" She yelled, infuriated and on edge. "I am trying! I play until my fingers bleed, go over the scales until my voice is sore, try and try and… it isn't there, Erik! It isn't there and nothing we can do will make it be."

His eyes narrowed. "You were lying to me then."

"What?!"

"No child of Christine Daae's – no child of _mine_- could be so musically clumsy, so dreadfully untalented, so utterly awful! Not a single modicum of skill or grace, no talent at all no matter how I try to teach you…"

"Oh, I have talent." Phillippa scraped rosin across the bow. "Only not the talents that anybody wants me to have." She frowned. "Not the talents I wish I had." The girl turned towards Erik with a pleading look. "I want to be up there, Erik. I want to hear the applause, I want to have it all, to be perfectly splendid and clever, to take them in with illusion and make such scenes of beauty for them…"

"And that is an illusion, isn't it?" He cupped her face in his hand. "Make them see beauty while underneath lurks such malformed ugliness…"

"Don't be hypocritical."

"I'm not. Simply observational. In fact I find much to admire in that. Quite like myself as I am sure you know. A perfectly wretched combination of my Christine and the Sultana."

"She is not your Christine. For now."

"For now." He paused. "You know, perhaps you are right. Perhaps I am merely being like a petulant stage parent, ignoring the obvious talent in order to live my own dreams. Perhaps there is another profession I can teach you, one which you would excel at far more. Come child, let us go to my torture chamber."

"That old thing? I have already seen it, many times."

"Seen it, yes. But I think it's time that I fully explain to you how it works – and how it is constructed. You see, Mirrors are wondrous devices, ma chere, and invaluable in helping people to see only what you wish them to see.

OOO


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